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ROB MCLENNAN |
strategy
to be undone; an eastern
dying slowly; I am killing myself midwestern
blonde bombshell in the fore
autumn thoughts react to spring elements &
dynasties
in the original, a chinese
character does not exist
in newspapers expected but not given
in the heart of an empty field
caged
small, for this is the way we expand all
inherited traditions
I am neither heroic nor fashionable
inhaling from a hard white tube
the wind is not a detail
composition
radio where I learn my everything
the red mailbox outside the dead pub
no longer in use
this is the key to describing all
arbitrary affect
the boredom is fascinating; overdone
I will not register my imagination
after sunset
the impossible moon rises to replace
the impossible sun
if these words were always yours or
mine
the ice cube releases heat as it melts
in the glass
I am a false map of desire
how can it be that the shadows are
gathered
fenceline
the block that holds the park, thin
hints to
instigate construction
I am at the end of subject matter
between the river & the glass reflects
Id like to address the demands of writing
Id like to address lung capacity
like a phoenix her poetics greet
symphony
the repetition is a constant vigil
hold your hands to take the jellybeans
from the vending machine
two wrongs dont
make alight
it dont
matter what you did
justice spins like car wheels overturned
I needed
I told them what I loved & why
discursive
it is all too far to bring the world
out as it is
when am I going to make the fray
three dogs decide
the unruliest of birds
the writers festival forgets
her children I have never met
a tactile displacement
writing leads writing to only
an eventual screenplay
today the doctor wants to know the score
it was in the dream
a call from
I keep dreaming of living alone
if I knew my words once filled &
fashioned
I call her miss atom bomb; I call her blonde bombshell
a humble icon of further imagination
I think singing must be in beautiful cellars
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